The Seven Steps
by Sandylee007
Summary: SEQUEL TO THE FIVE STEPS. With the chaos finally ending Sherlock and John are reunited once more. But the scars run deep and emotions high. Neither is quite the man they were before Moriarty's twisted game. Will they ever manage to mend their severed bond? Or is it their destiny to part ways once more, this time for good? A POTENTIAL SEVEN SHOT
1. Fantasy

A/N: Yup, the sequel is FINALLY here! (beams) Hooray?

First off, though… Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the love and affection you've given the prequel! It was my first 'Sherlock' chapter fic so you can only imagine how my heart sings. (BEAMS, and hugs) Thank you! I truly hope that you'll find this sequel worthy of your expectations.

WARNINGS: A SEQUEL. Violence. Quite dark themes. Language.

DISCLAIMER: Yeah, right…! If I'd own 'Sherlock' we'd be waiting for season 5 right about now, not pining for number 3. (starts sobbing hysterically) C'mon, we all know that there'll be AT LEAST 5 seasons. Hopefully closer to 50. (grins)

Awkay… I guess there's no stalling further, huh? (shudders) I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

**_The Seven Steps_**

* * *

Fantasy

* * *

Nine months had passed by from when Sherlock Holmes was last allowed to be with John Watson. For just one night in the hospital. With both of them knowing that the doctor would be transferred to a unknown location the following day he snuck into the hospital far past visiting hours, dressed up as a doctor. There were a million things they needed to talk about – a thousand scars, inside and out, to be soothed – but John was in no condition to be exhausted in such a manner. So they simply lay there, the doctor in his bed and Sherlock in a painfully uncomfortable arm chair, watching crappy night time movies until an actual member of staff came to chase Sherlock away. Just before being all but bodily dragged away Sherlock swore that Moran would pay. That he'd bring an end to the whole goddamn nightmare, once and for all.

John, the trusting fool that he was, gave a smile Sherlock blamed on heavy pain medication. '_I know. I believe in you, Sherlock._'

(Neither had noticed that somewhere along the way their fingers had entwined, just like they did once when they ran into the night together. But they both shivered from cold when the physical contact broke.)

Nine fucking months.

No one barely noticed Sherlock as the detective marched into the police station. Since John had been taken away to safety the detective had basically lived in the building, driving everyone inside up the wall. In the end Mycroft had seen no other choice but to give his brother a small room, a subtle distance away from everyone else. In a matter of weeks the room's walls became covered by pictures, notepads and clues. Yet all leads, no matter how promising several of them were, slammed to a dead end.

Some days Sherlock could almost hear Sebastian Moran laugh.

Fortunately Sherlock was kept sharp and motivated. Most likely coming to the conclusion that Sherlock needed something that'd link him to sanity Mycroft also provided his brother a computer. What he didn't mention was that if one was clever enough to figure out the necessary passwords it was possible to get footage from a tiny countryside children's hospital in a unknown location. It took Sherlock's fuming and frustrated head a month to realize the opportunity. As expected the detective couldn't resist the temptation.

At first Sherlock didn't recognize the noticeably thin man with slightly spiked dark hair. But then he noticed the slight limp and the stiffness of left arm. When he saw those eyes properly he knew. The makeover might fool anyone else but not him. It was clear that the doctor wasn't eating or sleeping enough but at least he was alive, trying to make the most out of the life he'd been thrown into. Sherlock wanted to tell John that he understood, that he felt the same way. He also wanted to tell that one day this would all be over. That one day they'd be back in Baker Street, where they belonged. Bickering and solving cases together.

It was a sweet dream.

Once again lost into the footage Sherlock didn't even notice that he'd been holding his breath, as though afraid of breaking an illusion, until he unleashed a shuddering sigh.

It was hard – far harder than could be explained with any amount of reason – to just watch John from afar. To see all those changes, to see the same ache that was gnawing his own insides every single day. But at least now they both knew that the other was alive. At least now there was hope. Enough hope to chase him to watch this footage every single day, until he'd finally have John back home once more.

All of a sudden John's eyes rose, almost like sensing the pair of eyes observing him. Sherlock's fingers tingled while a tiny, sad smile appeared to the doctor's face for a moment before the man shook his head. Soon the children claimed John's attention.

Safe in his solitude Sherlock couldn't hold back a frail smile as he watched how John looked after the children with affection and care, a protective gleam in his eyes. With a heavy weight sitting on his chest he observed how the doctor ushered the children inside, safe from the rain that'd fall soon. Something dark and heavy that'd become Sherlock's constant companion since the infamous fall settled in. The weight was so great that breathing became a struggle.

He couldn't tell what it was – all he knew was that 'it' still possessed him into writing a never to be sent letter for John every damn day. He wasn't even ready to give 'it' a name just yet. But he did know, for a fact, that he would've given just about anything if…

There was a knock on the door. Unable to really tell why Sherlock wiped his eyes before managing to switch off the computer, barely bearing to watch how John disappeared. Exactly ten seconds after the knock the door was opened.

Mycroft didn't offer him a smile or words of comfort. No matter how furious Sherlock was with his brother he was grateful for that, at least. There was no telling how he would've reacted to those hollow, pitying words.

Sherlock gave the arrival a wry look. "Yes, dear brother. I'm still alive."

Mycroft didn't appear impressed. The man's arms folded and forehead wrinkled. "I'm not in the mood, Sherlock." The tone was clipped. There was a second's pause. "You invaded a yet another crime scene today. I heard that you punched one of my men. It's already all over the internet."

Sherlock's eyes hardened. His fingers began to drum restlessly. "It's Moran behind this again, Mycroft. He's taunting me. He wants my attention."

Mycroft's eyes darkened. "He wants to watch you suffer. And I'm not giving him that satisfaction."

"Well you also can't hold me captive here while he's still out there!" Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft gritted his teeth and Sherlock could've sworn that he saw a vein swell. "Look… We're still dealing with the storm caused by your resurrection. Your reputation hasn't been restored yet you keep intruding crime scenes, attacking members of law enforcement. Right now you're drawing far too much unwanted attention to yourself. And Moran's enjoying every second of it. This, you losing your mind… It's exactly what he wants."

For a second Sherlock stared, then snorted. "I lost my mind a long time ago. Remember?" He cast a threatening look towards his brother. "Fine, fine. Order received. Not get the hell out. We'll never catch Moran if you keep yapping at me."

Mycroft gave a loud huff, running a hand through his hair. In the end his brother seemed to come to the conclusion that there was nothing he could do. The door was nearly slammed shut.

As soon as Mycroft had left Sherlock tapped the space above his top drawer twice, then once to the left side. The drawer gave a soft click and he pulled it open, carefully making sure that no one was about to enter and catch him in the act. Once convinced he looked down, stared at the contents.

What looked like hundrets of pieces of paper looked back at him. Tiny notes. He began to find them from crime scenes they suspected to be Moran's doing almost as soon as John had been taken away. Some of them were words, some pictures. Little threats and taunts.

Gritting his teeth, he took the newest one from his pocket and added it to the collection. A small piece of paper he'd found from a victim's mouth when no one noticed. This one was different from the rest. Apparently Moran was done playing with him – it was time to get serious.

'_2356. A bench in the park. Come alone or watch your heart burn._

_M_'

The message was finalised with a small photo of John in his current hospital.

Sherlock felt like snorting. 2356. The time of Moriarty's death. Such foolish sentimentality.

Exactly eighteen seconds later his chair was empty.

* * *

Sherlock's steps were slow as he approached a park's bench, then sat down. It was getting cold. Soon it'd rain.

Wasn't it raining where John was, too?

His instincts were surprisingly sharp, considering how deep in thought he was. He spotted the shadowy figure approaching him long before the man sat down. Every single muscles in his body stiffened.

There was a unreadable look on Sebastian Moran's face. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it?"

Sherlock wasn't interested. His eyes sharpened. "What am I doing here?"

Moran emitted a sound of amusement. "Always straight to the business with you. Well, then…" There was a brief pause while the man lit up a cigarette. "Frankly, it's getting rather boring to observe your mental breakdown, the mighty detective's continuing fall from grace. So I've decided to make this a little more interesting."

Sherlock frowned, his fingers itching to grab his gun. Dread made the hair in the back of his neck rise. "How are you planning on doing that?"

Out of all the items Sebastian might've picked up Sherlock hadn't expected this. A cell phone. The man chose numbers and pressed 'dial', then offered the phone to him with a deviously sweet smile. "Go on ahead, Sherlock. I'm sure you've been anxious to get the chance to talk to him."

In a flash Sherlock knew with chilling certainty. And then John's voice floated to his consciousness. "_Hello?_" The doctor sounded tense and tired. Suspicious. "_Who are you, and how did you get this number?_"

It was torture, to hear John's voice under such circumstances. To not be able to utter a single word. Sherlock hung up, venom appearing to his murderous eyes when they were fixed on Sebastian. "You son of a bitch…!"

Sebastian held out a admonishing finger. "Tut tut, Sherlock. Surely you wouldn't want me to pay the good doctor a visit?" The killer leaned closer, obviously enjoying all those things that must've radiated from Sherlock. "That agent assigned to ensure his safety was no good, really. I've been keeping an eye on him for a while now."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. His hand was already tightening around his gun. "I'm not going to let you hurt him."

"I'm not quite sure I could possibly hurt him worse than you have, if I'm to be honest." A head was tilted before the verbal torture continued. "Did you know that he has nightmares – every… single… night? That he always wakes up screaming. They're not of the war anymore, you know? At least not of the one in Afganistan. Sometimes he even cries out for you, although I can tell that he tries to hold himself back. He must miss you terribly. But don't worry. You may be together again sooner than you'd think."

Unable to restrain himself anymore Sherlock put the gun directly to Sebastian's forehead. It took all his willpower not to pull the trigger. "Leave him out of this."

Sebastian arched an eyebrow, showing him the cell phone once more. Unimpressed. "Really, Sherlock? Are you actually going to take the risk when I may have foreseen this option?"

No, he wasn't. Gritting his teeth so hard that it hurt Sherlock glared at the other man, who looked away with a amused expression, smoking calmly. "What the hell do you want?"

"We, detective Holmes, are going to play a little game. And then one of us dies." Those eyes flickered towards him for a moment. "You're familiar with Russian roulette, yes?"

* * *

TBC, OR NOT?

* * *

A/N: Oh boy… (winces) So okay, we know that this isn't over – otherwise this'd be a pretty dull story and I'm fairly sure that you guys would come hunting me down. (smirks sheepishly) BUT, the question is, under what circumstances will our boys meet again? And just how much damage has been done – and can it be fixed?

Sooooo… (gulps) Was that any good at all in your book? Or should I just gun this down right now? PLEASE, leave a note and let me know! Starting a new story is always nerve wrecking so it'd mean a lot to me. (gives puppy's eyes)

Thank you so much for reading thus far! Maybe I'll see you again later…?

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: Awww, it makes me super glad to hear that you liked the story so much! (beams) As you've noticed if you're reading this, the sequel is already up. I truly hope that it turns out worthy of your expectations.

Massive thank yous for the review!


	2. Undoing

A/N: I'm baaack! (grins) Hooray?

Firstly, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for your love and support! I would've never expected that you'd give a sequel such a warm response. (GLOMPS) So thank you! You guys are the best.

Awkay, before I loose my nerve… (gulps) Let's go, shall we? I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

Undoing

* * *

Dr. John Watson – or Dr. Benedict Freeman, as he was forced to correct himself every bloody day – dreamt of going back home a lot. Not a night passed by without sweet, tempting illusions of what might be waiting for him, of happy times that were right there, within his grasp until he opened his eyes and crashed back into reality. He missed a lot of things, so many that he would've surely gone mad if he would've allowed himself to think about them any more throughoutly.

His belongings. His job. His home. His friends. Sherlock.

It was unfair and cruel that now, when they would've finally had the chance to try and work things out, they were pulled apart once more. Trying to recover from Moriarty's latest ordeal had been sheer torture. Accepting the truth of Sherlock's resurrection was proving to be even more of a challenge. It was almost impossible for him to imagine that the detective was actually there, back home, waiting for him. How could he be sure that he was no longer pining after a ghost?

That bitter thought was cut abruptly by a flash of pain. Looking down in alarm John discovered that the book he'd been trying to focus on had given him a nasty cut. A couple of blood drops fell, staining the white page. John felt a wave of cold that couldn't be explained with reason.

* * *

It's rarely a good thing to get a phone call in the middle of the night.

A few hours after putting a band aid on the small cut John was, for once, about to drift into a sleep when his cell phone started ringing. In an instant the doctor was alerted, his eyes slightly widened and his pulse speeding up. Only Mycroft knew this phone number but since that one prank call…

John picked up after several moments of hesitation. "Hello?"

Mycroft hesitated, which alone was alarming. "_John, I need you to listen to me carefully. And then I need you to stay calm._" A very sure way to make a person panic.

John's fist balled so tightly that nails dug into skin. His head swam and everything around him seemed to be swaying. Still he got up, unsteady on his feet. "Sherlock's missing, isn't he?" It wasn't a question. His voice was tight, almost desperate. He didn't care.

If Sherlock had gotten himself hurt while John was here, miles and miles away, hiding and struggling from day to day…

"_John, listen to me!_" That voice claimed John's attention. "_I'm only using this number because Moran found you. You're not safe anymore. Your agent is arranging a new hideout._"

For a second, five, eight, John remained perfectly still, staring at the skull sitting on his desk. (A precious memento.) "I don't care about being safe. I'm coming home." He hung up before Mycroft could produce another word and switched off the cell phone.

* * *

Saying goodbye to his make believe life was harder than John had expected. He'd made new friends, as far as it was possible to use that word when he hadn't been able to tell his co-workers even his real name. He'd grown roots, feeble at best but still. One of his colleagues, a rather beautiful doctor named Mary, clearly wanted something more than friendship out of him. And the children… He'd loved working with them. If he'd stay here he might have the chance to finally have a family of his own. A wife, a house, two kids and maybe even a dog. His stay here had reminded him of those long ago smothered desires.A tiny part of John reminded him that he'd never, ever get some of the things he'd always dreamt of in the life he had in Baker Street.

But that life with Sherlock, the one that'd been so harshly interrupted twice, was _real_. Made him feel more alive than anything else ever had. The call of home (the call of Sherlock) was impossible to resist. Especially now when Sherlock needed him.

John planned on leaving in the security of the night, leaving behind only gifts for the children and a letter of apology for the adults along with his resignation report. And a letter for Mary, of course. She was more than able to manage with the children without him. One day she'd find a man who'd be able to give her all of those things she deserved.

John had already made it out of the building when he heard Mary's voice. "I always knew that you only considered this a temporary home." There was sadness but no accusation in her dark brown eyes. Wind played with her long, chestnut colored hair while she folded her arms. "But I was hoping that you'd say goodbye face to face before leaving us."

John looked down, feeling a stab of guilt although he knew that he'd never done anything to lead her on. Although he knew, deep in his heart and soul, that he was doing the only right thing. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Mary smiled. It almost reached her eyes. "You're only following your heart. I just…" She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know that you don't really sleep because of the nightmares. And that haunted look in your eyes right now… It was there when you first came in. I hope that whoever you've chosen can take it away. Take care of yourself, do you hear me?"

John nodded, his eyes softening. "I will." Then, on the spur of the moment, he added. "Thank you." After everything she'd done, or tried to do, for him she deserved at least that much.

All of a sudden Mary was less than a step away, less than a breath, really. The kiss she placed to his lips was warm, tender and brief, full of things he understood all too clearly. It was over before he could be fully sure if it was real, though. "Whoever it is you're running to… I really hope that they care about you even half as much as you care for them." With that she turned around and walked away before he got the chance to say another word.

John took a breath, stared at the direction to which she disappeared for a second before turning and continuing his own way. There was no hesitation in his steps.

* * *

John called Mycroft as soon as his feet hit London. His voice was tight with a lot of thing he was in no condition to process just yet. "Have you found him?"

Mycroft sighed. "_No. But we found Moran an hour ago. Or what's left of him, anyway. His body was in a old warehouse. He died of a single, self inflicted gunshot wound to the head but he'd been beaten so badly post mortem that he had to be id'd from his dog tags and dental records._"

John's knees nearly gave out as the information sunk in. Moran… was gone. It was finally over. Really, truly over. His relief was shortlived. Cool wind made him shiver when he dashed outside, despair burning in his eyes. "What about Sherlock? Where is he?"

"_I think we both have a clue of where he might be now._"

John's heartbeat gained a foreign rhythm. He was already hailing for a taxi. "Let me go there first. Please. There's no telling what condition he's in – what he'll do."

There was a heavy sigh that sounded more like a growl. Surrender. "_How fast can you get there?_"

Finally, finally a taxi stopped before John. He dove in without a thought, rattling the address without pausing for a breath. "Eight minutes."

"_I'm giving you five._"

Going back to Baker Street after such a long time felt overwhelming and surreal. John barely knew what he was doing while he paid for the ride and stumbled out of the vehicle, then struggled to quicken his pace. It was fortunate that Mrs. Hudson seemed to be out of the city. This all might've been too much drama for her.

Entering the familiar flat John felt like he'd stepped backwards in time. Nothing had been touched and it was dark. But no longer hollow, like it'd been during Sherlock's absence. At that very moment he _knew_.

Practically holding his breath John took several steps forward. His feet were hesitant although his whole body was begging him to run, as fast as he could. He reached the room that was his what felt like a lifetime ago. And stopped.

There, slumped to the floor beside the bed, was no one other than Sherlock. Clothes stained by a sickening amount of blood but alive. The detective was staring at the wall, breath coming out in irregular, wheezing intervals. Time froze. A minute ticked by, then another. John couldn't bring himself to move, barely dared to breathe in fear of breaking the illusion.

Then Sherlock finally noticed him. The detective blinked twice, as though trying to wake up properly, then emitted a choked wheeze. It was breathtaking to see the light that lit up into those haunted eyes.

John, however, didn't have the time to marvel for he finally regained his ability to function. With a couple of long strides he was on his knees beside Sherlock, trembling hands hovering above the bloodied clothes but not daring to touch. Fearing that even the slightest of brushes would… "Are you injured?" He recognized his own tone only absently. It was the same he wore in Afganistan. Always the soldier. Sherlock wouldn't respond and a wave of dread washed over him, making him shake right down to the core of his being. "Sherlock, I need you to answer me. Are you hurt? Do you need to…?" He never made it to the finish of that sentence.

Because all of a sudden a pair of arms wrapped around him, pulling him close with a stunning amount of force. Sherlock held on with the sheer power of despair, like he'd been the only thing anchoring the detective to the world. Soon, dazed and his heart jumping so hard that it _hurt_, John returned the embrace. Both men were trembling pitiably. Somewhere in the distance the sounds of sirens approached the building. Apparently Mycroft had finally called an ambulance. John's head was spinning madly while he tightened his hold on Sherlock, just a little bit.

Time… All those endless days… Suddenly the time they'd lost weighed a ton on John's quaking shoulders.

And then Sherlock collapsed into his arms.

* * *

A blow to the head but no concussion. A couple of stab wounds, painful but not lethal, not even bad enough to require a prolonged stay in the hospital. Bruises. A great deal of exhaustion, which was highly likely the biggest reason why Sherlock passed out in the first place. John heard all that but his head wouldn't really register any of it. Until, of course, it all came crashing down.

The doctor probably didn't understand why John burst into tears.

The next time John was at least remotely coherent Greg Lestrade was there, standing beside his chair with hands in pockets and staring at the figure that lay in a nearby bed. "It's unnerving to see him so still."

The laugh that burst out of John was nearly hysteric. He wiped his eyes although they didn't feel moist anymore. "I know." He would've given a lot if he would've had the chance to hear his best friend speak, perhaps even see the man pace around the room with the expression of sheer concentration and irritation, but the doctor in him understood that the detective needed rest. For now the steady rise and fall of the chest would have to do.

Greg gave him a frowny look. It took a couple of seconds before the man spoke. "John, are you… alright? I mean… This is all pretty overwhelming."

John swallowed, unable to look away from Sherlock. No, he wasn't alright. He was tired, shaken, worried, angry, guilty, elated, throughoutly lost, furious, relieved and confused. In pain, emotionally and physically. For the past nine months he'd been forced to lie to everyone around him, pretend to be someone he wasn't and act as though nothing was wrong when everything inside him was _screaming_. Nine months ago he almost died in the hands of a man who was supposed to be dead. He found out that his best friend faked his death, allowed him to grieve and long to a point where he almost…

But Sherlock was alive, although it'd been a close call. Sherlock was alive, after putting his life on the line thrice because of John. John had someone in his life who was actually willing to die for him. Who was he to hold that against Sherlock? And hadn't he made the same decision, when he'd been put into that spot?

It'd all been for him. It was horrific to even think about and the storm that wanted to erupt inside of him was making his head spin. But Sherlock was alive. It was finally over. Perhaps this was their fresh start. John had never been so relieved and grateful in his entire life.

John took a deep breath, just to make sure that he still could. It hurt more than he would've considered healthy. "I'll be okay", he murmured, deciding that yes, eventually he'd have to be. When his damn hands would stop shaking.

Greg nodded slowly, not appearing entirely convinced. Clearly coming to the conclusion that John might need some privacy the DI got up and stretched in a exaggerated manner. "I'm going to get myself some coffee. Do you need anything?"

John shook his head without giving it a lot of thought. All he needed was to see that Sherlock was still breathing. To be reassured over and over again that it was really over.

Greg squeezed his shoulder upon leaving but he barely noticed. Because just then he saw Sherlock's fingers twitch. Exactly five seconds after Greg's departure Sherlock's eyes opened halfway, a little bleary but full of life.

Despite the hurricane of mixed emotions John found himself smiling, his eyes watering ever so slightly. "Hey. How long have you been awake?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Long enough." The detective's gaze swept towards the room's door, as though to make sure that it'd stay closed. "'Thought he'd never leave."

"Hmm." John frowned upon noticing how his friend winced when trying to shift on the bed. "Are you in pain? I should get a doctor…"

Sherlock's shake of a head left no room for doubt. "You're a doctor, aren't you? So stay." There was something very close to despair in that command. A displeased frown appeared to the detective's face while those eyes examined him. "Sleep. You look ready to drop."

John emitted a suspiciously moist snort. He had to clear his throat before he managed to speak. "Oh, you're the one telling me that? I wish I had a mirror with me so you'd see yourself." He was already getting up, suddenly in a hurry to get out, to get away. "I'll be…"

Before John could speak out a word of protest Sherlock was moving. He didn't realize what was happening until the detective had grabbed his wrist so tightly that it hurt a little. There was a unreadable look on the man's face. "Stay or I swear I'll come right after you." John had never seen anyone look so serious before.

John fidgeted. In any other state of mind he would've chuckled at the absurdity of it all. "How far could I possibly go in a hospital?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "I don't care. I'm not letting you leave me again."

John blinked once. Were they still talking just about him going to get a doctor? He was too tired to tell how many conversations they were having all at once.

Fine.

Like he would've been able to deny Sherlock anything, anyway.

He owed this inexplainable man his life, after all.

John didn't like the way Sherlock grimaced with apparent pain while he sunk back down. The worry was almost enough to usher him into motion once more. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock leaned heavily against the pillow and bedsheets. The detective's eyes were already drooping. "Shut up and sleep, John."

Sherlock's familiar scent and presence lulled John into a peaceful oblivion, calmed him down enough to allow him to close his eyes. Hard as he tried to fight against sleep, terrified that his friend might not be there anymore when he'd wake up, the exhaustion turned out to be too much. They both went under, their breaths in perfect sync.

It was fortunate, really, that they both failed to realize something. True, the war was over – for a while, at least. But now they stood on the edge of trying to rebuild on all the ruins the battle had left behind.

(An hour later Greg peered into the room to find the two of them fast asleep. A nurse stopped by shortly after him. Neither had the heart to wake them up.)

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: (sighs) Yup, they're together. Not well but alive. But the route won't be easy once the first shock fades, that's for sure.

Sooooo…. How do you guys think this one's coming out? Any good, at all? PLEASE, leave a note! (gives puppy's eyes) Awww, you've gotta know by now that I absolutely adore hearing from you.

I've really gotta get going now. (pouts) Until next time, folks! I truly hope that I'll see you all there.

Take care!

* * *

**Guest: **It feels super good to hear that. (beams) I really hope that the next one won't end up being a pancake, either.

Colossal thank yous for the review!


	3. Passive Aggression

A/N: Yup, I'm back. Be that a good thing or bad. (grins)

BUT, first of course. THANK YOU, so much, for all the love and support you've given this story! I contemplated making this sequel for a really long time. It means the world to me that so many of you seem to be enjoying this. (BEAMS, and hugs)

Awkay, because stalling isn't going to make it any easier… (gulps) I truly hope that you'll have a good ride!

* * *

Passive Aggression

* * *

/ _It was all very simple, really. Two men, both of them badly bruised and bleeding. One gun. A single bullet inside it. Sherlock's heart was thumping and a rush of adrenaline made him feel dizzy when he brought the gun to his head._

_Sebastian Moran smirked. __He didn't like the look in the man's eyes. "It's amazing, isn't it? To find someone you're willing to die for."_

_Sherlock didn't dignify the other man with a response. Instead he closed his eyes, letting his mind summon a picture of John, then pulled the trigger. There was a soft click but nothing more._

_It took absolutely all his willpower to keep himself from turning the gun against Sebastian, because they both knew that the next shot would be the last. But he couldn't take the risk with John's safety on the line. Instead he put the weapon heavily to the table. Sebastian's hand was perfectly even when the man took it._

_"You know, Sherlock… You're fighting a losing battle." Sebastian's eyes were dark while the man brought the gun to his own head. "I'm the last one left standing of Moriarty's army. But do you honestly think that there won't be others some day? That we're the worst ones to come after you and John? Because sooner or later they'll come. Numerous. Ruthless. I've seen the first hints myself. See?" The man showed a long, deep scar that ran from his cheek to the base of his neck. A one last, ice cold grin appeared. "One day your heart will be burned out of you, Sherlock. On that day I'll know that we won. And when you come right down I'll be waiting to ask you if it was all worth it." With those words Sebastian pulled the trigger. Moriarty's web was no more._ /

* * *

Being back at Baker Street with John was weird for Sherlock. It felt incredibly good, of course. Whether he wanted to admit it or not he'd missed spending time with his blogger. Being around the doctor once more was intoxicating, helped him think clearly once again. Perhaps that ability to think clearly was precisely what gave him the opportunity to realize that something was off

_John_ was off. And Sherlock was, too.

As soon as Sherlock was discharged from the hospital John focused all his attention on making sure that the detective was recovering properly. They talked but there were topics – the nightmares they both had, Sherlock's faked death and John swallowing Moriarty's poison, to name some – that were forbidden. They didn't dare to bicker anymore. It was as though they'd both been afraid that even the slightest crack to the bubble they'd closed into would make the other run away. They were so afraid of upsetting the other that they were tripping over themselves. It was infuriating.

They both played the exhausting game. Dodging invisible bullets. Waiting for a bomb to finally go off.

Three weeks after their newest reunion Sherlock found himself sitting on a chair only five steps away from John's bed, watching intently how his best friend slept. Slept, not rested, for no one who was getting actual rest could possibly have such a look of anguish on their face. Every now and then a tiny, muffled whimper erupted – like the soldier had, even in his sleep, struggled to remain in control over himself. The doctor's hands were pulling and clawing the sheets so hard that it was a miracle they didn't tear.

Pain striking all the way to his insides Sherlock allowed his mind to spin and wander. He deduced, pieced together facts. John had definitely lost weight and during the time Sherlock had been back from the dead he'd discovered that the doctor's eating habits were almost as unhealthy as his own. Insomnia seemed to be another new shared problem for them – every single night they were both awake, Sherlock usually lay in his bed and listening to the doctor pacing restlessly, feet tapping a endless path. The limp was also back, which was something that hadn't shown in the footage sent from the children's hospital. It was something their renewed companionship aroused, then. Sherlock hated the fact that he'd caused the return of that long ago buried problem.

As usual when wandering to the depths of his mind Sherlock lost contact to the present world. Failed to notice how John's eyelids first fluttered, then opened completely and spotted him. When he finally floated back into active consciousness John had been staring at him for two full minutes. It was impossible to read the expression on the doctor's face.

Most people would've been embarrassed over being caught doing something so… odd. Sherlock merely blinked once, not even recognizing that he'd been doing something that a lot of people wouldn't exactly appreciate. "It's only three in the morning", he informed. "You shouldn't wake up yet."

For another second John stared, then groaned and rubbed his face with one hand. "Sherlock… You can't come into people's bedrooms in the middle of the night and stare at them."

"I heard a crash, then it became quiet. I wanted to see what happened. It was a honest coincidence that you'd already fallen asleep." Sherlock's eyes flickered towards the glass vase that was still on the floor, shattered to what looked like a million pieces. The metaphor fascinated him, just as much as it _hurt_. He surprised himself with actually hesitating before the next question. But he needed to know. "Was it an accident?"

John looked away, focused on the ceiling. Jaw tightened and lips parted ever so slightly but no words came. That was all the reply needed.

Sherlock swallowed, feeling cold all of a sudden. He would've wanted to touch John (Didn't people do that to comfort each other?) but the bizarre, almost torn expression on his friend's face nailed him to the spot. John's breathing was loud and erratic, like that of someone who was in a great deal of pain. And just like that they found a new topic not to be touched.

Sherlock wondered how many of such topics there could be before they'd stop talking entirely.

He looked down at his fidgeting hands, swallowing hard. All of a sudden he felt betrayed. Enough so for it to bring a stinging sensation into his eyes.

During his faked death he had a lot of time to think. And quite often his mind slipped to when he'd finally get to come back home. His head created a unhealthy amount of ideas of what'd happen when he'd meet John again. He expected a punch and a lot of screaming. Maybe even tears. A little more screaming. But he also expected joy and relief. He expected John to be _happy_ for his return. Didn't the man stand by his grave begging him for a miracle? Well, he came back, during the most horrific circumstances but still. For John. And it felt like there'd been a brick wall between them. The doctor barely looked at him anymore. They were standing on the opposite sides of a mine field and neither dared to take the first step. The thought that this… situation might never change scared Sherlock out of his mind but he couldn't bring himself to take it on.

Since he was a child he'd never been good at examining delicate objects without making them fall apart.

Sherlock knew that he should've walked away, left John to get some much needed rest. But he was scared, disappointed, irritated, a little angry and uncertain. He needed some sort of a proof, even the slightest sign, that this whole mess might get better one day. The problem was that he didn't have a clue of how to ask for it. There must've been a desperate look in his eyes while he stared at the doctor, who'd turned his back on him. Usually such a sign of weakness in himself would've infuriated him but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to care.

_I'm here, John. Do you even see me? __I… __I'm back. I'm alive. We're both here. So… Why am I still missing you?_

Sherlock kept staring, deep inside hoping that John would give even the slightest hint that the doctor noticed his despair. The man didn't move. The detective swallowed, unable to get rid of the rotten taste sitting on his tongue.

_You're… _here_, too, aren't you?_

It took a while before Sherlock realized that he'd never actually spoken out loud. His lips opened but even a breath wouldn't slip through. Instead he licked his lips, fidgeting with ache the source of which he couldn't name.

_Talk to me, please. Notice me. Don't leave me alone again._

John didn't respond in any way. Sherlock waited, and waited, but as sunrays began to seep into the room he was forced to admit defeat. His steps were a lot heavier than they should've been when he left the room. It wasn't until he was safely in his own room Sherlock wiped his eyes.

(Had he stayed a minute longer Sherlock would've seen John's cocoon crack, would've seen how the stiff shoulders began to quake softly.)

* * *

Apparently the completely foreign, uncharacteristic emotional turmoil exhausted Sherlock further than he'd expected. He must've fallen asleep because all of a sudden he woke up. The scent of tea lingered in the air while he glanced towards the clock.

Ten in the morning.

Sherlock gave his head a minute to gain some coherence, then pushed himself out of the bed although staying right there – in a half asleep haze – would've felt like a very tempting idea. He sauntered to the kitchen and froze, wondering why his heart skipped a beat at what he found. John, reading the day's newspaper. And two mugs of tea.

Sensing him there John looked up. Those eyes stared a second longer than they should've before refocusing on the paper. "You finally fell asleep so I decided to let you get some rest. You needed it." The doctor went on when he moved slowly. "The tea should be warm."

Words a little like 'Thank you' was sitting on Sherlock's tongue but something was blocking its path. Instead his head focused on something else entirely. "Shouldn't you be at work?" he observed out loud.

"I have a nightshift. These lazy mornings are a luxury." Finally, finally, John looked at him. A tiny frown appeared. "What's wrong?"

It wasn't until then Sherlock realized that he'd barely dared to breathe since sitting down, so very close to the doctor yet somehow a great distance away. "You made two mugs", he pointed out the obvious. Somehow it felt important.

Was that a smile and a grimace? They looked alike on John's face these days. "I never stopped making two, Sherlock." That was the clearest crack to their bubble that'd appeared during the past three weeks. The first opening.

Neither dared to take it. But still, with John refocusing on the newspaper and Sherlock tasting the tea – his favorite brand – the distance between them seemed to shorten the slightest bit. Sherlock couldn't help wondering what'd happen when it'd be closed and they'd have no room left for running away from each other.

* * *

Sherlock found himself continuing his habit of writing John letters. Although they were back together there were still things he needed to get out of his chest – things that he couldn't bring himself to say to his best friend. Alone in his room, listening to John pacing in his own room, Sherlock wrote with a trembling hand, hurt, anger, fear and sadness darkening his eyes. Before he realized it he'd produced what looked like a million little notes during those endless nights.

'_How much longer are you going to keep punishing me?_'

'_I did it for you!_'

'_I get it already, alright? I get the message! So stop!_'

'_You made me watch you die twice!_'

'_Do you have any idea of how much I want to punch you in the face?_'

'_Would it be better if I was dead?_'

'_Let it out and have it over with!_'

'_Stop this!_'

'_Open your mouth a yell at me, because I want to scream at you, too!_'

'_Come back already!_'

'_Please!_'

In the end Sherlock resulted to slightly more desperate measures, just to get a reaction out of John. Any reaction. Even if it was that punch.

Since he wasn't (_they weren't_) allowed on cases just yet Sherlock's buzzing head needed something to cling to. Once again his experiments took over the apartment. He kept causing damage in the name of science, trying to bring some spark into the doctor, just like his antics did before. Doing something so familiar offered him a hint of comfort although his experiments didn't have the results he would've wanted. John greeted the destruction he caused with silence. Sherlock found himself growing anxious, which was a feeling he didn't he wasn't busy with experiments Sherlock lingered in his Mind Palace, constantly straying to memories that'd become treasures in there, amongst all the dark.

He needed a sign, a damn sign that one day things would change.

He who asks shall receive. Seven weeks had flown by when Sherlock opened his eyes to one Wednesday noon to discover that John had left to work without him even noticing. Instead he found Mrs. Hudson as he staggered his way to the kitchen. He blinked.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a smile. "Good morning, dear. Before leaving John asked me to make you some breakfast since he didn't have the time. He said that you haven't eaten properly in three days."

A sensation of warmth settled into Sherlock's chest. It was a struggle to maintain his cool mask. "I'm not hungry", he announced.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes narrowed and a respectably sharp looking knife was pointed at his direction. "Don't make me smack you, Sherlock. You're skin and bones, both of you."

Something about those words brought a chill through Sherlock. He decided to look further into it later. Right now it was hard to focus.

Mrs. Hudson finished preparing the breakfast in silence. Sherlock appreciated it. To his surprise she sat down as well after offering him the food. There was a tiny, slightly sad smile on her face. "John's no fool and neither am I. He asked me to make sure that you eat."

That warmth bubbled inside Sherlock once more. He stared at the breakfast for a moment, deciding that it didn't look entirely repulsive, and began to nibble it. He wondered if John had anything to eat before heading for work. Unlikely. There were no dishes in the sink.

"Sherlock." After such a long, companionable silence Mrs. Hudson's voice surprised him. The expression on her face was slightly more solemn than before. "John didn't ask me to say any of this, but… I think that it's important that you know. Because no matter how brilliant that head of yours is I doubt that you'd figure this out on your own." She reached out a hand but didn't touch, knowing that the invasion wouldn't be welcomed. "You mean the world to John. Seeing him without you… It was painful."

Sherlock stared at the food. He most definitely wasn't hungry. "But I came back. Why is he pushing me away?" It came out with more venom than he'd intended.

"He has a lot to process. You do understand that, don't you? You both have. You've been through this nightmare as well, after all. I think that in a way you're both still grieving." There was a small pause before she continued, just as softly. "He just needs some more time. It doesn't mean that he'd be letting go of you."

Neither said anything after that. Perhaps those words were all that needed to be spoken. Sherlock finished his breakfast under Mrs. Hudson's watchful gaze. Somehow it felt easier to breathe.

(Later that day Mrs. Hudson came home from a grocery store to find a tiny, quite beautiful and old metallic vase she'd thought lost from her living room. Sherlock, she realized without a fail. He must've used the item in one of his experiments but it'd been cleaned up with obvious care. She smiled, knowing that it was Sherlock's way of saying 'Thank you'.)

* * *

His talk with Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a tiny amount of peace and serenity. He refused to say patience, for he just didn't do patience. He knew, for sure now, that John still cared. That John was trying, just as hard as he was. But why the hell did it all have to take so long?

Although, if Sherlock was completely honest with himself, he was slightly afraid of them moving on to the next phase. The territory they were about to enter was unknown, unsteady, hazardous. Sherlock didn't think that he'd be able to take the thought of losing John all over again.

Whether he was ready and willing or not, one night five days after his talk with Mrs. Hudson brought them all the way to the edge of their breaking point.

"SHERLOCK!"

It took a long time before Sherlock, who'd been wide awake staring at his newest experiment, realized that the heart shattering, desperate scream didn't just echo inside his head. After their less than comfortable nightly encounter in John's room the doctor made strict orders to ensure that the detective would respect his privacy. Tonight Sherlock tossed all privacy to hell. John sounded like someone had been skinning the man alive.

It turned out to be a nightmare. _Again_. John's whole body was shaking with sheer agony and Sherlock could only imagine just what his friend was seeing.

Not even pausing to think of the reaction he was risking Sherlock made his way to the bed and pressed hands to the tossing and turning doctor's shoulders. "John." All he got was a wounded, agonized whimper. "John, it's alright. It's just a dream, okay? It's alright."

Sherlock really, truly should've been more careful. Because all of a sudden a fist was flying his way – pausing less than a millimetre from his face. It wasn't the near-hit that chilled him. It was the look in John's eyes.

They were horrified. Outraged. Wild. Those of a wild beast that'd been kept in a cage for much too long.

Those eyes… They didn't belong to his best friend. Couldn't. That _wasn't_ John.

"Oh, bloody hell…", John breathed out, gasping and running a badly shaking hand through his dark dyed hair. It was easy to see just how hard the soldier fought but didn't quite manage to regain full composure, couldn't bring up those shields that'd been up high since their newest reunion in the hospital. The gasps continued and in a matter of moments Sherlock realized that they were quickly turning into something between hyperventilating and sobs.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and shifted his weight, unsure of how one should proceed in a situation like this. Was he supposed to try to comfort John? Or give the doctor some space? He didn't have a flaming clue and John's wasn't exactly helpful.

In the end Sherlock did something that felt far more natural than he would've known to expect. He reached out a hand and laid it to John's knee. He wasn't sure if John even noticed the touch. His jaw tightening Sherlock stared at the opposite wall, at their shadows dancing on it. A searing sensation took over his eyes but no moisture formed.

So they sat for close to an hour, the two dead men. Both trapped into their own personal horror stories. Both desperately attempting to reach out for the other but never quite getting there with their own sorrow and anger pulling them down.

And then John moved, so suddenly that it startled them both. The doctor was blinking and wiping his eyes furiously although Sherlock couldn't actually see any tears. "I… I have to get some air." The soldier's voice was deeper than usual, gruff. Strangled. Those eyes wouldn't even flicker his way. "I… I need air. Before I'll…"

Sherlock really, really should've attempted to stop John when the doctor half-dashed out of the room. Should've at least said something. But he couldn't bring himself to do a thing, couldn't open his mouth when he had absolutely no idea of what'd come out. He finally became mobile when the apartment's door closed. Something so strong that if seized his breath took over while he grabbed the nearest breakable item he could find – which turned out to be a glass of water – and threw it at a wall. It was the closest thing he could get to the scream that was building up in the back of his throat.

It wasn't until an hour later Sherlock realized that John had left without a coat and shoes.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Oh brother… We all knew that it wouldn't be all sunshine and rainbows. And it'll get worse. (winces) Those poor things!

Sooooo… Was that any good, at all? PLEASE, leave a note and let me know! It's highly important to do one good deed every day, remember…? (smirks)

Until next time, folks! I REALLY hope that I'll see lots of you there.

Take care!


	4. Attack

A/N: Gah! Updating's been a bit of pain lately. I've gone and gotten myself a nasty lil' cold. (pouts) Nothing overly dramatic but horribly annoying. I hope that my transport kick's the flue the heck out soon.

Anyways, before getting to the actual business! THANK YOU, so much, for your love and support! (HUGS) You've made several of my days brighter. So thank you!

Awkay, because I'll have to go and sneeze… (Soooo not attractive…) Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride!

* * *

Attack

* * *

Breathing hurt. It really, really hurt. To a point where it was nearly impossible – his lungs just wouldn't expand the amount they should've to contain a proper breath.

For a few moments of sheer chaos and panic Dr. John Watson was – despite all his medical knowledge and reason – sure that he was going to die.

Well, he'd certainly never pictured himself dying right before DI Greg Lestrade. " … it. Breathe, John. _Breathe_."

/ _"Breathing's boring."_ /

_Really, Sherlock? Honestly?_

The hand that grabbed his shoulder made his whole body and soul react. John had been to a war – several times over. He would've been a fool to go there if he'd been unable to protect himself. He wanted this torment to _stop_! He wanted to be left alone!

"Jesus Christ…!"

It wasn't until that exclaim settled in John was able to reach at least a tiny bit of coherence. He opened his eyes halfway, feeling dangerously dizzy and swaying where he'd slumped down. (To a filthy street corner. How wonderful…) It took a very long moment before the situation registered to him properly.

Greg was slumped to the pavement a slight distance away, holding a hand to a bloodied nose.

John's eyes widened. Cold filled him while adrenaline began to fade away much too quickly, leaving him trembling. "I'm sorry! I'm so…!"

Greg held up a hand, appearing surprisingly understanding for someone who'd almost had their nose smashed. "John, calm down. You were having a panic attack. I should've known better than to touch you."

John swallowed, a horrendous, bitter taste sitting in his mouth. A panic attack? He looked around briefly, mostly to avoid facing his friend who was bleeding because of him. He couldn't recognize the alleyway they occupied. Where the hell was he? How far from Baker Street had he wandered? And how the hell did he get here? His last coherent memory was…

/ _"John, it's alright. It's just a dream, okay? It's alright."_ /

_The hell it was!_

John swallowed again, noticing that his breathing pattern was changing while a searing sensation took over his eyes. His fists clenched while he fought desperately over control. He wished that he would've been able to get up. To keep running. To…

"Hey, none of that!" Greg's eyes were as stern as they were terrified. Clearly the man didn't want to deal with another one of his episodes. "I need you stay with me, alright? I need you to focus."

Focus. Focus. Focus. John could very well do that. Switching on his doctor mode he crawled forward – crawled, because he didn't dare to even try standing up – and made his way to his decked friend. He tried to keep his hand steady and succeeded while surveying the damage. "I… I don't think that it's broken", he mumbled. Regret formed a suffocating ball into his throat. "But it'll be sore for a while."

Greg smirked, which looked a bit chilling with all the blood staining the pale face. "Well… At bloody least this should be a hit among the ladies."

That actually roused a tiny smile from John. Sparked a little bit of genuine warmth. He welcomed both with open arms.

The relief, of course, couldn't continue for long with one of them trying to overcome a borderline nervous breakdown and the other sporting a borderline broken nose. Questions needed to be answered. Greg stared at him intently, as though trying to search his mind for the answer. Well, not a big surprise that the attempt was unsuccessful when even John didn't know a damn thing anymore. "John… What is this?"

John stared. And stared. Then broke into a hysterical laugh. "I don't know."

Greg didn't appear impressed. "We're two hours' walk away from Baker Street. Your feet are bleeding, you just had a massive panic attack and by the time I got here you were practically unconscious. So, you'll have to do a little better than that." The DI produced a rather impressive string of vulgar vocabulary when his cell phone bleeped. "Look, so far Sherlock's sent me a hundred texts and Mycroft's breathing down my neck. So, I'm asking again. What's going on?" The man went on after a second's pause. "Let me rephrase that. What did Sherlock do this time?"

Those words made John convulse and he had to bring a hand to his mouth when he was sure that he'd vomit. He ended up gagging dryly instead, something shattering to pieces inside of him. Whatever broke the shards _stung_, to a point where he had to claw himself to try and get rid of the agony. Nothing gave him relief.

"Stop that, right now! If I bring you back to Sherlock all torn and bloodied he'll throttle me." It was around then something seemed to click. Greg's eyes sharpened. "You… _are_ planning on going back home, right?"

John looked at the red, screaming lines he'd drawn to his skin. Stared, breathing hard and loudly, his head spinning madly. Breathing still hurt. "He's… He's really alive, isn't he?"

It took a while before Greg managed to respond. The man's voice was soft, almost understanding although the DI couldn't possibly have a clue. "Yes, John. He's very much alive. He came back for you."

John had educated himself long and hard to have the perfect self control. To not display his wounds. To not cry from pain. But Greg's words, the confirmation that was only just beginning to truly sink in after all the terror was finally over… Something snapped under the weight.

John burst into soundless sobs, his face buried into one hand.

* * *

When Greg offered to give John a ride home – stating quite firmly that it was either home or the hospital – the doctor only managed to utter that he needed some time. Just a little bit more. They ended up driving around the city for an hour and a half, most of the time lapsed into a quite comfortable silence. All the while John felt like there'd been a bomb ticking somewhere deep within him.

In the end he decided that he couldn't waste any more of Greg's time. The DI looked at him with a frown while he half-climbed, half-stumbled out of the car. "Are you sure that it's safe to leave you alone?" the man asked.

John tried to smile. He had a feeling that the expression was closer to a grimace. "Yeah, I'm okay. Remember to put some ice on that nose when you get home." He took a breath, pleased to discover that it wasn't as painful anymore. "Thank you, for everything."

Greg waved a hand. There was still blood staining the man's face. "Anytime, mate. Take care of yourself, alright?"

John nodded mechanically. The gesture was something he'd been doing a lot since Sherlock's death. (Death? No. What the hell was he supposed to call it, now?) He waited until the DI had driven away until he dared to try if he could walk. It turned out he could, albeit barely. His feet exhausted, aching and weak he climbed to his very own door. It took several deep breaths before he'd managed to summon enough courage to open.

Sherlock wasn't home.

John blinked, then emitted a moist snort, unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry. It was a long time from the last moment when he knew exactly, without a doubt, what he wanted to do. He was in a desperate need for some certainty.

Feeling more exhausted than ever in his life he made his way to the kitchen. Ah, so Sherlock hadn't just walked away, after all. John's cell phone was waiting for him with fifty unanswered phone calls and one new text message. He began to read after a beat of hesitation.

'_I tried to wait for you but Mycroft called, said that he needed help with a case. Doesn't he know that I figure out when he lies? It'd be most convenient if you were home when I get back. S.H._'

John took a breath. This time it didn't hurt. He was pleased that Mycroft had granted him this opportunity to figure out his damn head.

Aiming blindly he made his way to his own room, stared at all the familiar things that summoned a million memories. Stared at a life a he'd been forced to leave behind. That'd been ripped away from him. (A part of him wondered if Sherlock felt this way upon returning, too. If the detective missed it all as badly on the run. Missed him.) Sherlock's scent was everywhere. The detective must've been in the room right before leaving. The scent was enough to send him to a violent storm of flashbacks.

/ _"… just one …"_ /

/ _"… goodbye …"_ /

/ _"Are you even happy that I'm still alive?"_ /

Breathing hard, all too aware of how close to hyperventilating all over again he was, John allowed his eyes to drift between three directions. The bathroom door that seemed to be a lifetime away. The suitcase that sat forgotten where he'd abandoned it the day he came back from his brief, strange life as another person. The kitchen.

Finally, finally, John knew exactly what he wanted. His heart was pounding, aching, breaking, rejoicing and shuddering while a unreadable expression appeared to his face. He couldn't even feel the stabbing pain in his feet while he began to move.

* * *

An hour ticked by. Then another. With patience he hadn't expected to find from his soul John sat absolutely still in the constantly darkening kitchen, only the uncontrollable trembling of his body proving that he was still awake and alive. Somewhere in the distance a clock kept ticking. The sound hurt his ears. Adrenaline rushed through his veins with a suffocating force.

Eventually the flat's door opened and familiar steps entered. "John?" Sherlock sounded slightly mystified but not hesitant. Was the detective even capable of feeling hesitation? "I know that you're awake. Why is the apartment dark?"

John swallowed while Sherlock shuffled, switching on lights. He told himself that his eyes stung just because of the light assaulting them. His fingers were twitching madly, so much tension in them that it hurt. "We need to talk."

They _should've _talked a long, long time ago.

Before the air around them became this heavy and poisonous.

Before they both got this badly lost into their own hurt.

Sherlock paused by the kitchen's doorway, eyes fixed firmly on him. It took a long moment before the detective spoke. "You're angry", the man observed.

John snorted, his fists balling. By then his knees were shaking so badly that he feared he might go down completely. "I've been angry since the moment I saw you plummet to the pavement, Sherlock. I… There's so much anger in me that it's making me ill."

Sherlock's fists balled as well. They were both preparing for a confrontation but neither wanted to be the one to take the first step. "You know why I had to do it, John. I couldn't let Moriarty go through with his threat."

"I know all that, Sherlock. Since… Since your return I've rolled that thought through my head a million times every day. Tried to hammer it in. I bloody well know _why_." John's hands were shaking and he was in a desperate need for something to occupy them, because he didn't have the slightest clue of what he'd do with them soon. He filled a glass with water and took it, almost hard enough to break it. His eyes were burning so badly that he wanted to cry out. His whole body was. "But that… That doesn't change the fact that you left me! That _you_ abandoned me! And they… They didn't even let me grieve! Everyone – even my damn therapist – expected me to move on, to pick myself up and take it like a man! How the hell could they expect me to do that!" It was then he found the strength and courage to look towards Sherlock once more. The flames in his veins intensified, seized his breath for a moment. "How the hell could _you_ expect me to do that when you knew damn well…!"

Sherlock's fist swung to the side, so rapidly that it stunned them both. In a flash a cabinet that'd been loose since the day the younger man supposedly died came down, all the dishes crashing to the floor and shattering to hundreds of pieces. Neither of them noticed the noise or the mess. "Shut up! Shut up for a goddamn second!" the detective snarled in a miserably broken voice. "I was all alone, too, John! 'I've just got one', remember?" Sherlock's eyes held something John had never seen in them before. Sheer, utter grief. Frustration, anger. "I was out there, all alone, trying to stop something that I couldn't even see! I couldn't talk to anyone, I didn't know anything! I didn't even know if I'd ever get to come back home again! And when I finally came back I had to watch you die – twice!" Those could've been tears but they disappeared so quickly that it was impossible to tell. "I threw away everything to save your life, John! Just like you did when swallowing that fucking poison! What we… What we did was the same thing!"

John didn't know what came over him. But all of a sudden it was impossible to maintain the walls he'd relied on since the day he watched Sherlock hit the pavement. He couldn't bring himself to act anymore.

"NO IT WASN'T! You didn't have to go through my bloody funeral! You didn't have to visit my grave for _fourteen months_ thinking that you'd never see me again!" The glass flew from his grasp before he realized what was happening, a safe distance away from Sherlock but still close enough to give a message. "I was ready to die for you, Sherlock! Heaven forbid, I still am! No lies, no acting, no deceit – I took that drink knowing that I was going to die! And I didn't even hesitate! I'd experienced the world without you and I wasn't planning on returning into it!" The damn had been broken. And in a split second he spilled something he'd never, ever meant to speak out loud. "And you… You killed me! I almost died _because of you_!"

Sherlock frowned. Those infuriatingly observant eyes sharpened, like those of a bloodhound that'd caught an interesting scent. "John… Are you only talking about the poison?" Trust the detective to be alert enough to catch that royal slip, even in such a emotional turmoil.

John's mouth opened but the words didn't make it out. He was too exhausted to utter a sound. Instead he slumped down to the floor, rubbing his unexpectedly hot and moist face furiously with both hands. Sherlock mimicked his actions. And so they fell, to the opposite sides of a sea of hazardous shards.

John barely recognized his own voice when he finally spoke. "I'm just… I'm so tired of all this, Sherlock. Of this loneliness. Of feeling so much all the time. Of fearing every bloody second that you won't be there anymore when I look away for a moment."

The silence that followed was deafening. The words he thought he heard might've as well been his imagination. "So am I, John." Sherlock wasn't crying. The look on the detective's face was something far more heartbreaking. Hurt more than any fist could've. "You're leaving me again, aren't you?"

John stared. And stared. Looked and _finally_ saw what'd been right there, before his very eyes. All self control faded away.

Sherlock blinked with surprise as the detective watched him crawl closer, through what must've been a million shards. "John, what the hell are you doing? You're bleeding…!"

"Shh."

And suddenly all the anger and chaos faded away, ceased to exist. John paid no attention. He'd been doing too fucking much thinking and feeling already.

He didn't touch Sherlock. It would've been too extreme with how he was barely in control over himself as it was. But he sat so close that they could feel each other's warmth, felt one another even without any skin to skin contact. Both exhausted to the core. Dazed. Boneless.

They sat there – two wounded soldiers – even without touching clinging to each other with absolutely all their might. Both scared out of the minds in the freefall they'd jumped into. Waiting for the sunrise of a new day.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Oh boy… That was pretty exhausting to write, actually. All that raw emotion…! (winces) Those boys are a mess, but hopefully something good will come out of this chaos.

PLEASE, hit me with a note before ya go! It'd be super cool to hear from you folks. (shows some cyber cookies) These could be yours, you know… (wink, wink)

Until next time! I really hope that you'll all join in then.

Take care!


	5. Self-Harming

A/N: Heh, I'm baaaack! There's a whole barricade of 'projects' buzzing around in my head BUT there's no forgetting this lil' baby. (grins)

Before getting to the actual business, though… HUGE thank yous for those amazing reviews! The past week or so hasn't been a lot of fun so you guys have seriously brightened my days. Thank you! (HUGS)

Awkay… Before I chicken out completely let's get to the business. I can't promise a pleasant ride, but I hope that you'll enjoy it anyway.

* * *

Self-Harming

* * *

Since the damns had been broken with their violent encounter Sherlock and John stood on a slightly more honest and a little less quaky ground. They fought a lot more than they ever did before – anything from a misplaced dirty fork to a blown up experiment could set them off – and doors were slammed so frequently that poor Mrs. Hudson probably had a constant headache. But at least there wasn't a minefield between them anymore. At very least they knew that they both desperately wanted things to get better.

Yet even after two weeks Sherlock couldn't shake away the feeling that he was missing something. Sure, John was slightly more relaxed around him already. Things were by no means what they were _before_ but they were trying, surviving, both fumbling and stumbling along the way while they attempted to mend the broken bond. So why couldn't Sherlock trust in this borderline utopia blindly?

Simple, really – because when something appears too good to be true, chances are that in the end it is just that.

Halfway through week three after the _explosion_ John surprised Sherlock with coming home from work early for once. There was a bizarre, infuriatingly and fascinatingly unreadable look on the doctor's face. "I… I think that I finally figured out how we could get some sort of a closure, for… well, all of this. So… I need to take you somewhere."

John suggesting an adventure for once. Well, that was a surprise. Sherlock didn't hesitate before jumping to the wide open chance.

Sherlock realized where they were going about fifteen minutes before they reached their destination. Suddenly the urge to jump out of the vehicle was almost too grand to resist. But then he felt how stiff John was beside him, caught a glimpse of that strained face. And taking the easy way out was no longer an option.

_Goddamnit…!_

The cemetery smelled of rain, dirt and sorrow while the two of them marched through slowly. So close that they could feel one another's warmth yet somehow, still, miles away. Sherlock pressed his lips to a thin, tight line, trying to remember the last time he lost words so completely.

Words were hollow, boring and useless, though.

They stopped. Stopped, and stared. And Sherlock came to the conclusion that he was probably one of much less than a million people who could stand alive in front of their own grave, staring at their name engraved to stone.

"It's not any easier to come here now, if I'm to be honest." There was a pained look on John's suddenly very pale face. Was the doctor shivering? "With you, I mean."

Sherlock frowned. All of a sudden he couldn't bring himself to look at the stone anymore, instead focused on his friend's shoes. _Well, it's not easy for me, either._ "How is this supposed to help either one of us?"

John's brief chuckle wasn't bitter, only dark and worn. Hollow. "I… I'm sorry, Sherlock. I erred." Was the man talking just about this absurd visit? The doctor's breath was slightly erratic. The silence stretched. "You know… It's difficult to believe that you're up here, and not down there."

Sherlock was absolutely hopeless when it came to these situations. When he knew that he was supposed to do something, _anything_, to fix something he'd damaged this badly. His head whirred and buzzed until his body made the decision for him.

His hand moved an inch, just enoug for it to be noticeable, closer to John's completely even one. It was an offer. A plea, even. For the longest time the doctor stared, clearly not quite understanding just how much the gesture stood for.

_Do you still believe in me, John? Even just a little bit?_

Neither knew how long passed until slowly, hesitantly, John's fingers twitched before making their decision. And there, before the grave of a man that was alive and almost well, the doctor did the same thing he did the previous time Sherlock offered the man this decision. The fingers slipped through his, hesitantly but refusing to let go.

Without saying a word they left the cemetery, hand in hand and their backs turned towards the stone. Neither looked backwards. They didn't want to see the long shadows they were desperately trying to leave behind.

* * *

By the time they finally made it home it was getting late but neither wanted to go to bed. Instead Sherlock announced that it was his turn to choose a location for them. John's eyes widened to almost comical measures when he took the doctor to the lower end of a fire escape that led to the rooftop of their block of flats.

"Sherlock, are you bloody insane? My leg…!"

Sherlock gave his friend a wry look. "… is perfectly fine. Remember?"

John gulped loudly. It was around then Sherlock saw the sheer terror in the doctor's eyes. And too late, understood. "You really are an idiot if you think that I'll actually let you near any rooftop alone ever again."

Sherlock shivered. Seeing that fear, so very palpable… His eyes and face were serious, full of promise. _Never again, John, I swear._ "Follow me and make sure, then."

John's shoulders relaxed only marginally. Still hesitant, still in the grips of horror images. But the doctor grabbed metal right below him and began to follow.

They made their way up in a silence that electrified when they finally stood there, observing the world spreading down below. Sherlock winced when all of a sudden John's hand was wrapped around his wrist, harder than any steel. The message was loud and clear. Sherlock didn't know a lot about relationships or human emotions but he did know enough to stay perfectly still and silent. Knew enough to withstand the hurricane that was sweeping through those eyes.

They must've stood there, far too close to the edge for either one's comfort, before John finally spoke. The voice was quiet, like a trick of his imagination. "I… Sometimes I imagined what you must've felt like. Standing there, knowing that in a matter of moments you'd be…" There were no tears but that didn't make the ache any less visible. "I wondered if you were scared. Or relieved. If you felt lonely. Or guilty, at all. I even wondered if you thought about me at all."

Sherlock felt a sharp twinge at those words. _You were _all _that I thought of!_ He kept his mouth shut, though, knowing that his time to speak hadn't arrived yet.

John looked down, where cars were whistling by and people continued with their daily lives. "I… I even wondered if it hurt." The doctor swallowed loudly, shivering. "I kept wondering. So… One day I went there, stood exactly on that spot you did and looked down."

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction. Numbing cold filled his entire body. If his whole body hadn't been frozen he would've probably dragged John far, far away from the whole bloody rooftop right then. The words burned like acid on the tip of his tongue but didn't quite make it out. He didn't have the courage. "John…" Was that really his voice? It sounded odd.

John took a deep breath. The man's hand didn't slacken around his wrist, the fingertips refused to budge from his pulse point. "You can't even imagine how much it hurt, Sherlock. But… I prayed for my life, once. I couldn't…" The doctor cleared his throat, still refusing to look towards him. "I couldn't just throw it away like that. It was unbearable to live here but I also couldn't bring myself to follow you. It was torture." All of a sudden, without a warning, John emitted a growl. "Bloody hell, this leg…!"

When John half sat, half slumped down Sherlock followed and it had nothing to do with the hand clinging firmly to his. They were both gasping a little as they first sat, then lay down out of some mutual agreement. It took ages before Sherlock managed to breathe out. "I would've stayed if I could've." He couldn't expect John to believe him but…

"I know that. Intellectually, at least. But… Well." John appeared frustrated and torn while staring at the stars up above. "I want to stop being angry at you."

_The feeling is mutual, John. _Sherlock nodded, knowing that John wasn't quite finished yet.

"And Sherlock? I… don't want to punch you anymore." The was a beat's pause. He heard John breathe. Or perhaps it was a yawn. Neither one of them had been getting enough sleep. "If I had, though, I would've spared the nose and teeth."

Was that… the beginning of a smile Sherlock felt? Possibly. "That's a start."

He felt John's smile. Felt, because he couldn't bring himself to move. The doctor's thumb was rubbing small circles above his pulse point. He wasn't sure if the other man noticed. "Yes. I suppose that it is."

In a comfortable, companionable silence they watched the star filled universe spreading high up above. There, with his eyes fixed upwards and John so close that he could practically feel the other man, Sherlock found it easy to breathe. Felt more alive and whole than he had since his dramatic return from the dead.

Sherlock blinked once when he was almost sure that he saw a shooting star. He didn't make any wishes. He didn't believe in idiotic stuff like that. Instead he half whispered, more than a little bit afraid of finding the answer. "John… Do you think that it's ever going to get better? I mean… With us."

John didn't give any response. More alarmed than he would've cared to admit Sherlock glanced to the side. Something inside of him shuddered a little at the sight. John was fast asleep, right there beside him. Actually trusting him enough to sleep in his company.

Feelings were foreign and more than a little bit terrifying things for Sherlock. But there was nothing terrifying about the warmth that settled into his whole body and soul as he lay there, staring at his friend's peaceful face for a moment before making his decision. He pulled John a little bit closer, careful not to disturb the doctor's much needed rest, and closed his own eyes. (He never noticed how one of his hands rested lightly where John's heart was beating strongly, steadily. For both of them.)

True, they'd probably both end up catching colds from this. This was probably a horrible idea. Sherlock didn't care. Because for the first time since his return he actually felt like he was finally home.

Sleep found him easily.

* * *

Right there on the rooftop Sherlock got a solid proof of just how deep John's wounds went. But it wasn't until a week later he _saw_ it. For him the day began with a nightmare.

_There, in the dream, John refused to listen to him while he stood of the hospital's rooftop. As Sherlock screamed desperate pleas for the doctor to stop John only stepped forward. Keeping eyes on him, just like he'd been asked to. "Sherlock, I'm not letting you do this!"_

_Was that… a tear Sherlock felt? It hardly mattered. He reached out a desperate hand and his lips opened for a yell that never made it past his lips while John kept moving forward. And then it was all over._

_A silencer was used so the gunshot didn't make a sound. There was a sudden, sickening cloud of red while a look of surprise appeared to John's face for the briefest of moments. Right before Sherlock's eyes, without him being able to do anything but watch, the doctor slumped down to the ground, those eyes parting ways with his. And never got back up again._

"_JOHN!_"

Sherlock bounced from his bed so fast that he almost stumbled to the floor, his heart hammering madly while trying to understand that what he just saw hadn't really happened. John was alive and well. Everything wasn't alright but…

Sherlock's eyes stung while he made his way towards John's room, his knees dangerously unsteady. He knocked, first lightly, then with as much force as he dared to add without risking bringing down the door. (He had a feeling that John wouldn't appreciate having it in splinters.) "John?" No response. His chest tightened painfully. "John!"

Sherlock couldn't hold himself back for another second. Taking a hungry gulp of air he pushed the door open, knowing that John didn't bother to even try to lock it anymore after all the times the lock had been picked. There wasn't a trace left of the doctor. At that moment the detective's still shaken and fuzzy head managed to summon the necessary information.

Oh, yes… John had a early shift today. John was at work. Safe and sound. Sherlock's heart almost managed to calm down until he heard a degree of ruckus from the hallway. Curiosity – and, although he would've never admitted it out loud, worry – taking over he approached, ears keen to catch every syllable.

"_Oh dear…!_" That was Mrs. Hudson. Her voice was full of motherly worry. "_Careful with the stairs, now. You look paler than a sheet._"

"_I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson._" Yes, sure. That voice sounded _anything but_ fine.

Another voice snorted at the exact time Sherlock did. "_Oh, so that's what you call it? Fine?_" What the hell was Greg Lestrade doing there? "_Now come on, only a couple of more stairs._"

A heavy, sick feeling settled to the pit of Sherlock's stomach while he made his way towards the flat's door, his mind screaming alerts. He made it there just as the door was opened. All three of them froze. Or did time itself do so?

John clearing his throat cut the silence. Mrs. Hudson was right, the man did look ghostly pale. Ready to drop any given moment, really. "I, uh… really need to use the bathroom." The doctor tried to give Greg a smile but somehow it didn't come out quite right. "Thank you."

Greg nodded stiffly. "Anytime. Take care of yourself, you hear?" The man's eyes didn't leave John for even a second while the former soldier sauntered away. (Neither did Sherlock's, for the matter.) With the doctor away the DI focused on him, one eyebrow arched. "Alright, your turn. It's past noon. You do know that, right? And you're still in your bathrobe."

Sherlock shrugged, failing to undestand why his choice of wardrobe was worth even mentioning at the moment. "I stayed up late with an experiment." He glanced towards the direction to which John disappeared. "Why are you bringing him home at this hour?"

There was a moment of hesitation before Greg answered. "He collapsed at work. The bloodtest results haven't arrived yet but according to Sarah it's clear that he hasn't been taking care of himself. She would've wanted to keep him for overnight, for rest and to be hydrated properly, but John insisted that he'll be just fine at home."

Despite himself Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction. _Oh, great…_ "What the hell am I supposed to do with him?" He barely managed to keep his own transport ticking. How in the world was he supposed to see to the needs of John's?

Greg sighed, looking utterly exhausted all of a sudden. "For crying out loud, Sherlock…! Feed him. Make sure that he gets food and water into him." The man gave him a long look. "And look after yourself, too. Contrary to what some people might suggest you're not a machine. You need to process everything you two have been put through properly, for both your sakes. I won't accept losing either one of you now that you're both finally back."

Sherlock nodded. His eyes refused to stop sneaking glances towards where John went. He was in a desperate need for some time alone with the doctor. To make sure that everything would be alright, eventually.

Greg seemed to catch the hint. The man began to retreat towards the door. "I have to go – work's calling. I'll call later."

Sherlock nodded again. And then, on the spur of the moment, mumbled when the DI was almost out of earshot already. "Thank you." For what, he wasn't entirely sure. For bringing John home? For not punching him? For everything?

He could've sworn that he heard a stumble in Greg's steps.

Sherlock just stood there for a moment, feeling infuriatingly lost. Somewhere in the far corner of his consciousness he caught the sounds of Mrs. Hudson making a hassle downstairs and his own blood rushing. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos a realization dawned.

John had been in the bathroom for much longer than usual.

It was certainly a good spot to start. Sherlock made his way to the loo's door and knocked loudly. Something John had insisted he should learn to do. "John?" No reply. To heck with manners, the concept 'privacy' was foreign to the detective, anyway. Not really understanding why the doctor had bothered to lock the door in the first place he picked it easily, then pushed it open. And all of a sudden nothing made sense.

The first thing Sherlock's eyes fell on was the doctor's jacket, tossed near the doorway. John had slumped to the very opposite corner, face buried into a pair of badly trembling hands, breathing so hard that it was dangerously close to hyperventilating or a panic attack. It was at that very moment Sherlock realized just how thin the doctor had become. ('_Skin and bones, both of you_', Mrs. Hudson said once. How the hell did he miss _this_?) The most bitter part, however, were those light yet all too visible red lines covering those arms a plain t-shirt revealed mercilessly. Some old, some nauseatingly fresh. They formed a sickening map Sherlock had failed to see before. And then the doctor's utterly exhausted gaze rose to meet his.

John's eyes widened. If it was actually possible the doctor paled even further. "Sherlock…!"

Sherlock stood, completely frozen. Then slammed the door closed and stormed away, feeling like his whole body had been torn to pieces. On his way away he smashed a mirror, not bearing to face his own reflection at the moment. He gasped like a drowning man, unable to scream although he would've desperately wanted to.

The his sheer, utter amazement Sherlock didn't leave the apartment. He couldn't even make it past the living room. He felt the desperate need to crush something, anything, to let loose some of the helpless rage and terror inside of him. Instead he slumped to the couch, breath ragged and a tornado spinning around in his aching chest. It was far too much for a high functioning sociopath to handle. His eyes stung hellishly and he had no idea of what to do with the unfamiliar sensation. What to do with himself when everything was shuddering and spinning.

He'd never realized. He'd never known. If he had… If he had, he would've done something – everything – differently. He would've found another way. He never meant to…!

Sherlock didn't hear the steps. That's why the quiet voice managed to startle him. "I… was hoping that you'd never have to see."

Sherlock felt a unexpected spark of anger. The all too vivid mental image of what he'd just seen refused to leave his head. "You… You're a doctor, John! How… How the hell is it possible that you do something that idiotic to yourself?!" The following words were squeezed out with a great deal of difficulty. "You could've died!" _Again!_

"This isn't your fault. Do you hear me? It all just… It triggered something that lay in a slumber for quite some time. It's… _been there _since I was a teenager. You made the urge go away for a while." John sat slowly, almost carefully, beside him. The doctor was shaking. "I haven't been trying to die, Sherlock. I meant what I said, back there on the roof. I don't want to throw my life to waste. Not like this."

Sherlock felt pained, breathless, heavy. _Then what the hell have you been doing?!_ There'd never been as much grief inside him as there was at that very moment. He had no idea of how to deal with this. "I… I can't watch you die again. I won't."

"I know." John's hand in his was warm. Very much alive and firm. "Sherlock… We need help. Both of us. This is going to take time. And this is going to be very, very hard. If you can't be sure that it's worth it in the end…"

Sherlock didn't know what came over him. All he knew was that he had to – needed to – do something before this man beside him would be out of his reach forever. Before he realized what was happening he'd wrapped both arms around John's painfully thin body and pulled the doctor as close to him as humanly possible. He held on, for both of them, with absolutely all there was in him. He never even noticed how tears filled his eyes. "Don't leave me", he choked out. It's almost amusing how frail that command sounded.

After a second of stun John returned his hold. Those arms trembled as they held on to him, a gentle hand stroking his dark curls. "Then you don't leave me, either." The doctor's voice was hoarse, exhausted. "That's all I'm asking of you."

Sherlock nodded, unhesitantly making the easiest promise he'd ever given. It was raining mercilessly outside. Neither noticed.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Oh dear… (takes a deep breath) That… wasn't exactly easy or pleasant to write. But our boys definitely needed this. We'll see just where things go with the last two chapters. (gulps)

PLEASE, do drop a note on your way out! Awww, c'mon, a word or two and my day would be super bright. Would cyber cookies sway you…?

Until next time! I really hope that I'll see you all there.

Take care!


	6. Post-Traumatic Growth

A/N: We're almost at the end of this, ya all. (sighs) Oh, I'm going to miss this one so badly.

BUT, before I all sentimental (Sherlock would surely have none of that, after all)… THANK YOU, so much, for your love and support! I didn't expect that a sequel could receive so much affection. (beams and hugs) I'm totally excited here.

Awkay, I suppose that it's time to get going, no? I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

Post-Traumatic Growth

* * *

The first time John went to see a therapist he was twelve years old. Even as a grown man he could remember, quite vividly, just how horrified he felt while sitting in the waiting room all alone, one utterly humiliated hand trying to cover the newest cut. It wasn't his parents who sent him there. It was his teacher who insisted that he should schedule an appointment after accidentally catching a glimpse of his shame marks. Needless to say the therapy didn't go pretty much anywhere with John telling only half-truths and the man listening with only half a ear. Quite easily he managed to persuade the uninterested man into believing that yes, his parents were committed to ensuring that he'd continue to progress, and yes, there was no need to inform social services. (Good God, his father would've killed him if some social worker would've showed up at their door…!) The lies came so easily that he almost managed to believe in them himself.

Just as vividly John remembered his second therapist. She was a kind, compassionate woman. Probably fairly good at her job as well. But she didn't have the slightest clue of what to do with him, how to help him. She could never understand him although she tried with all her might. She just couldn't see through the barricade he'd built around himself.

So John's faith in psychotherapy wasn't exactly unwavering although he knew that he needed help – and Sherlock did as well – and was desperate to seek it. From the beginning he wasn't exactly confident that he'd find what he was looking for. John expected a great many things. _She _wasn't one of them.

On the day he started therapy for the third time in his life John came to mee the second Mary in his life.

There, bathing in the radiant light coming from a window and dangling on her tiptoes watering a plant hanging dangerously close to the ceiling, was a woman he couldn't see clearly in a few moments. She was very, very small, which was the first thing he noticed. Her shoulder length hair had been dyed dark at some point but natural blond was beginning to shine through stubbornly. Even as she was doing such a mundane task there was such a look of steely concentration in her hazel eyes that made his heart skip a beat. Her red buttoned up shirt and black pants made her pale skin glow.

It took a moment before John realized that he'd been staring. Feeling embarrassed he cleared his throat and shifted with discomfort. "I, uh… I was looking for Dr. Mary Morstan."

She peered down at him, readjusting her black framed eyeglasses. "Well, in that case you've found her." She flashed him a arm stripping smile. "And you… must be Dr. Watson."

Trying to smother the quite pleasant shudder inside John offered a smile of his own. Preparing himself for a performance. "Just John, please."

Dr. Morstan nodded slowly, her eyes examining him keenly. "John, then", she decided in the end. Without a warning she jumped off the table and he was there out of instinct, helping her catch her balance. (In that stunning moment of half insanity John decided that he liked her perfume very much.) Their eyes locked and held. "Well, in that case… Call me Mary." She moved from his arms slowly, keeping a professional front although he'd felt that her heartbeat increased. "I believe in honesty. So you can wipe off that fake smile right now. Before we get started I want to give you the choice." She fell to her chair, her gaze still leveled on him as he took a seat of his own a little less gracefully. "Which one do we start with? Your insomnia, anger issues, self destructive behavior or the fact that you seem to forget your limp the second your mind becomes stimulated?"

John blinked. Once, twice. "How…?"

Mary shrugged, not appearing the slightest bit smug. "I believe in deduction."

They didn't manage to reach a breakthrough during just that one session, of course. What they achieved was barely even progress. But it was still a lot further than John had ever gotten with any therapist. It was a start.

* * *

After his session with Mary John was exhausted, enough so to put him to sleep for eighteen hours. He waited with dread what kind of a state of mind Sherlock would return from his own first encounter. Saying that he expected anything positive would've been a lie.

Sherlock was away for three hours, seventeen minutes and fifty-six seconds. The detective's steps were sharp and heavy when they approached the flat's door. John didn't have to ask how the session went. A slammed door answered him. John waited with two mugs of tea for five hours before retreating to bed.

That night it wasn't nightmares that woke John from his deep slumber. It was something far more disturbing. The room's door opened and uncharacteristically hesitant steps entered, paused by the doorway. Sherlock was trembling so badly that the doctor could actually hear his friend's teeth clattering.

For a few moments John's head whirred until he shifted so that he could see the detective. The younger man had taken exactly one step from the door before freezing altogether, arms folded, face pale and a bizarre haunted look in his eyes. John's deduction skills weren't stellar but he was able to do the math, anyway.

"Nightmares, Sherlock?" There was no response. He sighed, trying to relax against the covers. "Everything's alright. Go to bed and try to get some rest."

Sherlock actually shivered at that. In a few seconds the man's nose wrinkled. "Sleeping's dull", the detective declared. Tough words from someone who looked ready to keel over.

John took a deep breath. He knew that he was probably insane, that there was absolutely no proper explanation other than that he wanted to get some goddamn sleep. He shifted, so that he was as close to the bed's opposite side as possible, then moved the blanket on Sherlock's side. "Go. To. Sleep." On the spur of the moment and unsure why he chose those particular words he went on. "I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise."

Sherlock stared at him with disbelief for a second and he waited for some sort of a snide remark. None came. Instead the detective actually moved and crawled slowly to the bed, laying down as far as possible and facing away from him. They were painfully tense, both clearly wondering what the hell one was supposed to say or do in this type of a situation.

In the end John began to laugh. First a quiet chuckle, then full-out howling, enough for it to bring tears into his eyes. "God, Sherlock…! Just imagine what people would think if they saw us now." He continued although it was almost impossible from the laughter. He couldn't remember the last time he would've laughed like that. "They'd never stop talking."

Perhaps his quite possible nervous breakdown did some good, after all. Because all of a sudden Sherlock was laughing as well. The sound bubbling from deep within the detective's stomach and throat, genuine and warm.

Neither had more nightmares that night.

* * *

"So… How have things been with Sherlock?" Mary frowned lightly when John stared at her with quite open bewilderment. "What?"

John shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Just… This is our sixth session, and this is the first time his name's been brought up."

Mary shrugged. "These sessions are about you, John. I prefer to focus on you."

John looked towards the window. When did it start to rain? "Actually… Actually Sherlock… is a pretty big part of my life."

"I'm aware." Mary tilted her head slightly. "I read your blog, to be honest. I was quite disappointed when you stopped updating."

John shrugged. Somewhere in the distance thunder sounded. "It's just… There was nothing in my life worth reporting, anymore. Afterwards."

"I see." There was a moment of surprisingly comfortable silence. "Have you ever asked Sherlock what _he_ did during his absence? Because I can tell that it bothers you."

Suddenly John felt a little defensive. He gave her a rather childish, moody look. "I thought that this wasn't supposed to be about Sherlock."

"Well, you said yourself that he's a big part of you. Apparently such a part that we need to pull out into open." Mary leaned forward, observing him. "How did you feel without him in your life?"

John gritted his teeth. Remembering those feelings hurt hell a lot more than than it should've considering how much time had passed. "Lost", he breathed out. "Empty. Angry. Or no, furious. He… He made me watch him die."

"Like you made him?"

John looked at her with surprise, feeling a hint of betrayal. But there, having heard those words from her, he found his mind reeling. It summoned him a picture of Sherlock's face from after he'd died before the detective – for the first time.

And finally, finally he recognized those eyes.

"It's quite a feeling, isn't it?" Mary's voice was quiet, bemused. "To have someone care about you so much that they're ready to die for you."

John was fighting back tears, choking on his very breath. "Yeah", he managed. His head was spinning. "It is."

This time the silence stretched. Thoughts roared and roamed in John's headed, crowding it completely. His skin was sizzling from the overdrive.

Until suddenly he clung to something that was probably completely irrelevant. He looked at Mary. "You know… I'm quite sure that you're the first person I've talked to about him who hasn't made immediate assumptions on the nature of our… relationship."

Mary shrugged. "He means the world to you. You're pretty much who _his _world revolves around. Why should that have a name, though?" A small smile appeared to her lips. "Tea?"

John found it easy to smile back. Like a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Yes, please."

He didn't bother to ask how she knew his favorite brand.

* * *

Weeks scrolled by fast and deviously. A season changed. Slowly yet surely John and Sherlock kept rebuilding on the ruins of what they'd once been, creating something that echoed the companionship they once had.

One day John came home from work and felt chills run through him the second he noticed a stain of blood on the floor. _Shit…_ "Sherlock? Are you alright?" He stepped forward slowly, soon finding shards of broken glass. Evidence of a experiment gone wrong.

"_In the bathroom_", a quite moody voice grumbled.

Taking a deep breath and counting to ten in his head John strode to the bathroom. What he discovered made him freeze for a moment. Several surges went through him.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of a bathtub, quite clumsily attempting to treat a wound on his arm. The man's hair was a mess and there were chemical stains on his dark clothes. "The whole damn thing blew up on me", the detective barked out.

For a few more moments John stared, then moved. "Let me have a look, why don't you?" he murmured upon approaching, prying the first aid kit from his friend's fingers. He winced after taking a closer look. "This is going to need stitches."

Sherlock shrugged. "Just do it. I've had worse."

John hesitated, not wanting to hurt his friend. But those eyes looking back held no hesitation so he began the work as gently as he could. Sherlock sat through it all eerily quietly, uncharacteristically still. It wasn't until then the barely audible words floated to his ears. "John… Thank you."

Stunned, John looked into his friend's eyes. Really looked. And realized that the 'thank you' was for so much more than him treating a wound. Hell a lot more. A small yet genuine smile made its way to his face while he squeezed the tended arm gently. "You're welcome."

* * *

"We've started taking cases again."

A grin spread to Mary's face. She took a sip of her tea. "How does it feel?"

The smile that appeared to John's lips was genuine. Since their first encounter over four months earlier he'd never had to fake one around her. The warmth that spread through him had nothing to do with the tea. "Amazing."

They sat in a companionable silence until Mary spoke once more. "How are things at home, then? Have you two been talking?"

John sighed. That… was a slightly more complicated matter. "We're… trying", he offered honestly. "I'm not angry anymore." There also hadn't been a new mark added to his arms for several weeks but he didn't mention that out loud. Somehow he had a feeling that she knew, anyway.

"How _do you_ feel, then?"

John chuckled. The sound simply bubbled out, tickling his lips on its way out. "Like I'm about to finish a marathon."

Mary smiled. "Well, I wouldn't say that it's a surprise that you feel drained. You've been through a lot, emotionally and physically."

"So has Sherlock." That marked the first time he brought the detective willingly into their discussion. He focused on his tea like there'd been something terribly interesting in it. "I… don't know the details. Hell, I don't know anything apart from the fact that he has nightmares almost every night and a lot of new scars. He… doesn't talk. It's not like he's ever been much of a _talker_ but this… This silence worries me. Or annoys me, I don't know. I can tell that there's a lot he'd want to say to me but never does."

Mary's voice was softer than usual when she spoke. Full of genuine sympathy, not pity. "He's not very gifted when it comes to expressing his emotions verbally, is he?"

John snorted but it was too tender to be considered harsh. "You could say that. He still calls himself a sociopath."

Mary didn't appear overly concerned. "He's Sherlock Holmes. When the time is right I'm sure that he'll find a way to let you know."

John nodded, some of his worry fading away. It was around then he realized something and frowned. "Isn't our time up already?"

"It was twenty minutes ago." Mary shrugged. "My five o'clock cancelled so it's not like we're in a lot of hurry."

John smiled. To be honest he wasn't all that eager to leave. Because all of a sudden there was warmth everywhere inside him and he was curious to figure out what it was all about. The doctor before him might be the only person able to help him with that.

* * *

A couple of mornings later John wasn't surprised when he woke up to find Sherlock gone, no note left behind. For the first time since the detective's jump he didn't feel a burst of panic. Perhaps that was a closure of sorts. He'd ask Mary the next time he met her. The thought brought a soft grin to his face.

The grin lasted until he took in the devastation in the flat. A yet another experiment gone wrong, then. And obviously Sherlock hadn't taken the time to clean up.

Some things never change, it seemed.

That thought was oddly comforting.

With a groan John began the process of cleaning, sending a prayer to whatever was listening that he wouldn't end up contracting anything hazardous. He was almost done when he bumped his knee on a coffee table that'd been brought in during his own, nine months long absence. While he nursed the injury a thought crossed his head.

There'd been a dull thud although the coffee table was supposed to be completely made of wood.

He'd clearly spent too much time with Sherlock because without much of a further thought he was on his knees, knocking cautiously on the wood. Creating varying patterns, testing, exploring. John was mildly stunned when indeed, a lid came off, revealing a hidden part. One that was full of notes and envelopes. All of them written to him.

For several moments he simply stared, disbelief numbing him to the spot. Then his curiosity took over although he was almost sure that he was making a horrible mistake. That he was touching something Sherlock would've never, ever wanted him to see. But he needed to know…

/ _"Have you ever asked Sherlock what he did during his absence?"_ /

All that pain… Loneliness… Remorse… Despair…

And then he found a letter Sherlock had dated to the day of the infamous fall.

'_I've never apologized in my life John, so understand just how much this counts for. I'm sorry. So sorry that it's tearing me apart inside. If there was any other way I'd spare you from this pain. You need to believe that, just like you've always believed in me when no one else has. I need you to forgive me one day, whether I'll be able to come back or not._

_If breaking your heart is what it takes to keep it beating for both of us then I'll do it. This world needs you. I need you._

_Because as it turns out I seem to have a heart, after all._

_Be damn sure to keep it beating until I'm back._

_I believe in you, too._'

It hurt like hell. More than John could stand. But he kept reading anyway because he needed to know. Because he needed to feel all this.

His breaking point came when he came across a note Sherlock wrote on the day John's heart stopped beating for two minutes at the hospital. The paper was stained with droplets of moisture, making the words almost incomprehensible.

'_DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE ME HERE ALL ALONE_'

Like someone had flicked a switch John's tears began to fall, mixing with the moisture marks on the paper.

Finally, finally he saw, more clearly than ever in his life.

Of course at that moment Sherlock's very familiar voice sounded. "You… were never supposed to find those." It was impossible to name the emotions that lingered in those eyes. Everything from rage and terror to grief was right there, the usual stoic mask completely shattered. "You weren't supposed to read those!"

John stared, his eyes finally wide open. Stared long and hard. And did the only thing he could possibly think of.

His legs shook when he got up and made his way to the still fuming detective, then threw his arms tightly around the taller man. At first Sherlock stiffened completely, clearly unsure what to make of the sudden contact. But then, very slowly, the man's body relaxed against his and those arms wrapped around him so tightly that it took his breath away for a second.

They stayed like that for the longest time, two men who'd never thought much of physical comfort, holding on to each other as though for dear life. Trying to mend something that'd been scratched, cut and bruised but never completely shattered. And although it was no magic cure they found it just a little bit easier to breathe.

* * *

TBC, for an epilogue.

* * *

A/N: Awww, they're standing on the edge of a closure, these two. It looks like things are finally getting better. (beams) We'll see just where everything goes in the epilogue.

PLEASE, do leave a note to let me hear just how you felt after reading this bit! This long project that's sneaked its way into my heart is almost over, so it'd be fantastic to hear you input. (glances with the most adorable pleading eyes ever)

Until next time, folks! I can't believe that this story's almost over. (pouts and wipes tears) I really hope that you'll all join in to find out how the story ends.

Take care!


	7. Epilogue

A/N: Surprise! (grins) In honor of this final (sob, sob) chapter I decided to deliver you guys a super early update. Hooray…?

First, though! Thank you so much for you support and all those amazing reviews. They're making me feel all warm and cozy. (chuckles, and hugs) But seriously, thank you! You guys are precious.

Awkay… (takes a breath) Because there's no stalling it any longer, let's get going. I truly hope that you'll enjoy the finishing bit of this race.

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

_Eight Months Later_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was, without a doubt, the biggest challenge that'd ever been thrown Dr. Mary Morstan's way. He tested her patience and sanity in ways no human being ever had before. Almost made her question her choice of career.

From the moment she met him she had a feeling that he didn't appear to her office purely in a search for peace of mind. Less than fifteen minutes later she was proven correct when he began to make not exactly subtle questions about Dr. John Watson, her second most challenging patient at the moment. She didn't answer even one of them, of course. But Sherlock, apparently, wasn't a man made for giving up.

Sherlock kept appearing, time after time, bringing in new questions for each session. Slowly yet surely she began to catch something between the lines. Learned how to read him.

There was a crushing amount of guilt in his eyes when he inquired if John had started cutting all over again. (If only she would've been able to tell him that things were finally headed towards the better.)

There was pure terror all over his tense face when he demanded to know if John was planning on moving out, leaving him. (She wanted to snort '_Like you two would ever be able to live without one another_'.)

There was pure, genuine worry in his voice when he asked – surprisingly calmly – if John was alright. (She countered with asking what he thought of the matter. His response was not saying a word for the rest of the session.)

In the end Mary came to think of bringing brain puzzles for their sessions. Something that'd distract Sherlock enough to crack an opening for her. She always hid them well, of course, not wanting to make her attempts too obvious. Much to her stun it worked. The scars she got a glimpse of, the nightmares Sherlock unfolded slowly yet surely… There was no way she'd be able to fix it all. But perhaps she'd be able to soothe them enough to make living with them bearable.

One early, sunny morning Sherlock paced around her office with a Rubik's cube he found from her locked drawer while she was getting tea. His mug was still untouched while he kept walking around with a occasional "Too damn easy" and "For idiots…". Then, when their time was almost up, he finally managed to voice what was bothering him. "What are your intentions with John?"

Mary coughed a couple of times, almost dropping her mug. Honestly, she should've seen this coming. She took a breath, bracing herself. "We are two adults, Sherlock. Why, exactly, would the nature of our relationship be any of your business?"

Sherlock's heated glare spoke all necessary.

Unable to keep herself from smiling slightly Mary decided that it was time to get this matter sorted. Perhaps then she'd get closer to actually helping him. "Sit down, Sherlock, because this is important." She didn't go on until he obeyed, visibly hating it. "As much as we enjoy each other's company John is my patient. That sets certain difficulties, as I'm sure you're aware. I'm not saying that I'd have any desire to have any sort of a relationship with him. But one day a woman may come who slips into his heart. When that day comes I want you to remember something. Pay very close attention, now." She leaned closer and was half surprised, half amused to find him doing the same. "_No one_ could ever mean more to John than you do. No one could ever take your place. Because I doubt that you'd have a lot of friends who are willing to give their life for you."

Slowly, slowly the expression on Sherlock's face changed. For the first time she saw him smile. "No, I don't", he murmured. "I've just got one."

Once their session was finished so was the Rubik's cube. The still bleeding, sneering wounds inside Sherlock weren't. But finally some balm had been poured on those open sores.

* * *

Mary found it quite fascinating to see the development in John. In the beginning she hadn't been sure if she'd be able to help the several times traumatized, broken war veteran. If she'd manage to stop new wounds from appearing.

As it turned out she underestimated her patient. It certainly took time but each step forward was resolute. The man who sat in her office today had steady hands and his walk was free of all signs of limping. His smiles were genuine. He wore long sleeved shirts so she couldn't see it but she _knew_ that new wounds had stopped appearing long since.

It seemed that she made a incorrect assumption from the beginning. Dr. John Watson had never been broken. Only damaged.

"So…", she murmured, realizing with a degree of dismay that they didn't have a lot of time left. "I have a feeling that things at home are improving."

John nodded with a smile. "Sherlock… is Sherlock. Living with him is insufferable sometimes. I yell at him. He doesn't listen to me. We get on each other's nerves. But… That's alright. Because when it's good…" The doctor trailed off, seeming to get lost into his thoughts. When he went on the smile was gone but his eyes were warm. "Things… They'll never be exactly like they were. You know, _before_. We've both changed too much. But we're not giving up. We just take it one step at a time."

Mary nodded her approval. "Sounds like a good plan to me", she stated. She looked at him long and hard. Then, with minutes to spare, asked the question that'd been waiting for the right time. For the healing to progress far enough. "John… Are you happy?"

John blinked with surprise. But slowly yet surely a new smile appeared. "Yes", he answered without the slightest hint of hesitation. "I am."

They looked at each other, sharing a small and very warm private moment. The silence in those few precious seconds spoke more than enough. And then their time was up.

John wiped his eyes although there didn't seem to be any moisture in them, then cleared his throat. Obviously preparing himself for something daring. "I, uh… was wondering if you'd like to go out and eat something." Was that a hint of a blush on his cheeks? "I mean, as friends. Or… something like that."

Holding back a chuckle was one of the hardest things Mary had ever done. There was a tiny flutter in the pit of her stomach. "Whyever not. I guess I'll have to eat on occasion, right?"

John's mouth opened but before any words could come out the man's cell phone bleeped. He gave her an apologetic look before taking the item and reading the message. It was easy to tell who it was from with how the look in his eyes changed. "It's Sherlock. He's got a new case." There was a somewhat torn look on his face when he focused on her. "I'm so sorry, but would you mind if we'd…?"

Trying to hold the smile in place despite a hint of disappointment Mary raised a hand, interrupting him. "Go. I know that he comes first, always."

Relief washed over John's face. She suspected that not many women understood this special relationship between the blogger and the detective. "Some other time, yes?"

"Of course."

Once he'd left and closed the door Mary sighed, running a hand through her hair. John was actually happy, full of life. And she knew for a fact that she'd see him again, several times.

That was more than enough for her.

* * *

DI Greg Lestrade had always been fascinated by the bond between Sherlock and John. It'd been damaged by Moriarty's schemes, almost beyond repair. But after months and months of work the traces of improvement were starting to show.

As they appeared to the crime scene that day the two finally seemed like themselves again. Sherlock walked in with an aura of surreal confidence, snapping at everyone who dared to question his right to be there. John was the ever present voice of reason, the one who walked beside Sherlock mumbling apologies to those the detective insulted and growling commands that in some miraculous way kept the younger man in line. They began to bicker almost as soon as they appeared, apparently not managing to agree on what the victim had been poisoned with. The familiarity of it all warmed Greg all over.

He'd missed those two – the real them, not the shadows they were only a blink ago – far more than could be considered healthy or sane.

It was easy to detect that something had changed, though. But whoever said that all change is for the worse? Sherlock's hand lingered quite often on John's shoulder and the detective was never too far from his blogger during their chases. Greg was willing to bet money that similar subtle traces could be seen behind closed doors. Sherlock protected John like the doctor had been his whole damn world. And in return John's eyes were always quick to follow where Sherlock was, constantly scanned their environment for signs of threat. The doctor was the only one allowed to treat the detective's wounds. John was Sherlock's very own guardian angel and Lord knows the detective needed one. So no change there, at least. Thank heavens.

Greg wasn't quite close enough to hear what was being said while the two examined the body but all of a sudden faint traces of giggling carried to where he stood.

Biting back a smile Greg gestured the Yard's men and women to follow him. "Come on, now. We've done what we could. Let's leave those two to work."

Just before leaving himself Greg peered over his shoulder once more, curiosity taking over. What he found brought a fond smile to his face. Made his heart swell with joy.

Still focused intently on the body the duo worked, Sherlock's hand on John's shoulder and the doctor leaning closer, most likely without even noticing it. The giggling became slightly louder, bubbled freely from their throats. The best part, however, was the air of sheer peace and contentment around them. The breath in the air which whispered that although there was a great deal of distance to cover one day things would be alright.

Feeling like he was intruding Greg faced away once more and walked on, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

'_All I've wanted just sped right past me_

_While I was rooted fast to the earth_

_I could be stuck here for a thousand years_

_Without your arms to drag me out_

_In the confusion and the aftermath_

_You are my signal fire_

_The only resolution and the only joy_

_Is the faint spark of forgiveness in your eyes_'

(Snow Patrol; 'Signal Fire')

* * *

**_End._**

* * *

A/N: Oh gosh…! (takes a deep breath) I can't believe that we've reached the end of this tale. (wipes eyes)

You guys, thank you so much for all the love you've given both this piece and the prequel! This has been a long ride and it's been great to go through it with you. (HUGS) So thank you!

Please, do leave a note to let me know what you thought of this final bit before you go. Awww, c'mon, it'd make the silly lil' me super happy. (blinks irresistibly cutely)

Once more, thank you! Who knows, perhaps I'll see you guys again one day.

Take care!


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